


Broken Swords, Bloody Roses

by Ophelia Coelridge (daemonluna)



Category: Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena
Genre: M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-23
Updated: 1999-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemonluna/pseuds/Ophelia%20Coelridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saionji endures a sleepless night of soul-searching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Swords, Bloody Roses

**Author's Note:**

> No real spoilers past ep 9, hidden minor spoilers up to ep 25.

The summer night is hot and humid, stifling any hope of sleep. I pull my hair up and tie it back, leaning against the window frame to catch any hint of a breeze. In my right hand there is a knife. In the left there is a block of wood. Oh-so-carefully, I put knife to wood and pare away a long, even curl. I don't know what will rest in my hand when I'm done, but the shape will come through soon. I have a knack for this. It is meaningless and inconsequential and has nothing to do with who I am. There is nothing in it of honour or power or strength. But it is soothing. It helps me think. And I am good at it. In the empty hours between midnight and dawn I need something devoid of meaning to fill my head and hands. A few more tentative cuts, and the form is set. I hold the rough block out at arm's length. The moonlight gilds it with a satin sheen, washing the wood, my skin, the room, in sharp-edged bars of dark and light. One sterile beam cuts across my bare desk. It casts the picture frame standing lone sentinel into high relief. From the frame's confines, two long-gone children smile.

***

 Little boys with our swords, we played at games of war and honour. And always, he won. I attack, he counters. I advance, he retreats, smiling. I strike, and he disarms me. And when I swing in anger and frustration, he turns my attack against me. Wooden bokken clatters noisily to the floor. An inadvertent gasp of pain. 

 "Good match." He smiles. "I'm sorry. Does it hurt?" He solicitously bandages the scrapes and sprains he inflicts upon me, as if I was his to fix. He wins, he always wins, and it means nothing to him. He defeats me every time and _it means nothing to him_. Some day, I swear, some day, Kiryuu Touga, you will pay. I'll make you see; I'll defeat you.

 But always, he is a step further, a step faster. I am on the Student Council. He is the president. I am captain of the Kendo club. He beats me effortlessly every match, as if we are still children at play. I am engaged to the Rose Bride and it is only because he cannot be bothered to take her from me.

***

 A rough shape is beginning to emerge under my blade. I carve more surely now, with the finished form set in my mind. It is something I control. It is a welcome distraction. I can't be the only one awake. The heat can't have stolen a night's sleep from me alone. Yet in the silent, heavy hours before the day begins, there is no-one else in the world. And I pour all my attention into the wood under my knife. It fills my gaze so I don't have to look at myself. 

***

 When we were thirteen, I hit him so hard my bokken splintered. He stood there unmoved. A gash from a flying shard of bamboo bloodied one temple. It stood out garishly scarlet against his fiery hair, caught up like a skein of raw silk.

 "You're bleeding," I pointed out inanely, still breathless from our match.

 "So are you," he said levelly. I raised my hand to my cheek; it came away bloody. Something darker than violence lurked in his clear blue eyes. He leaned closer, and taking my face in his hands, traced the cut with his tongue, licking the blood away. I shuddered, and pulled back.

 "What are you--"

 "Shhh," he said authoritatively. His warm breath tickled against my cheek. And then he turned his head and kissed me. He was demanding, persistent. I submitted silently as he claimed my lips, my mouth, my tongue, my self. He is ever the victor. I am ever his victim.

***

 My lump of wood has metamorphosed into something recognizable. It may be beautiful when it is complete. In my mind's eye, it is lovely. But for now, it has progressed merely to a rough outline. A promise, nothing more. 

 Alone in the night, I can't bluff my way through with brash self-assurance. I can't hide behind pomp and protocol. I can't lie to myself. And I do not like the self I see. Instead, I take solace in this small act of creation. I can do this. It is mine. And it may still be perfect.

***

 I was looking for something eternal. I wanted something that was nothing but my own. The Rose Bride was mine. But she submitted meekly, obeyed my demands, and nothing more. She cooked, and she cleaned, and on that first night, she came to my bed. Quietly removed her blouse. Then her skirt. Stood before me demurely, hands clasped, waiting. And I… I should have taken her. Made her mine. That was what I wanted. Wasn't it? I didn't. I sent her back to her own bed.

 "As you wish, Saionji-sama," she said mildly, as if I'd refused the offer for a cup of tea. Her glasses shone blindly in the moonlight like polished coins. I sat awake that night, cross-legged in the middle of the floor, bokken a familiar weight across my knees.

 Yes, the Rose Bride was mine. But she never resisted. Never fought. Never surrendered to me. When I look into her eyes all I see is my own reflection. Yet her unquestioning, unconditional submission is better than nothing. It's what I should want. It should have nothing to do with _him_.

 Why then, do I challenge Tenjou Utena? Because how dare, how _dare_ she try to take the Bride from me? She has no place here, no right to interfere. Who does she think she is? _He_ was supposed to challenge me. He was supposed to take her from me, as he takes everything from me. And when he did intervene, it was to throw himself in front of _her_. Touga, the Rose Bride, myself… it has nothing to do with her. Why does she persist when it's none of her business? For that, I will not forgive you, Tenjou Utena. Because of you, I was expelled and lost all that makes me who I am. Everything I want becomes yours. Everything that's _mine_ becomes yours. You steal everything from me.  


***

 I round an edge here, smooth a curve there. The carving I see in my head and the one I hold in my hand may yet become one and the same. The harsh moonlit shadows leave me working in black and white. There is no gray under the moon. There is no doubt.

***

 Does he know what I did when I handed him my exchange diary? Does he know that was a surrender? Into his hands I gave everything I want to be, should be. Into his hands I gave up my attempt to live the way I should, fight the way I should, want the one I should. I tried, oh, I tried so hard. And how was it any more of a lie than the rest of my life? Than anyone's?

 "After all, we are best friends," he says, so assuredly. I say nothing, accepting his claim on me. Best friends? He is my nemesis. He shines so bright; his shadow eclipses me. And without the confines of his shadow to struggle against, I am lost.

 My expulsion was more than an exile. I lost everything by which I define myself. No longer a student at Otohori, no longer captain of the Kendo club, no longer vice-president of the Student Council. There was no-one left to be but Saionji Kyouichi. And I had no way of telling who or what he was. More than anything else, I was bereft of Kiryuu Touga. I have been fighting him so long that when I cease, I don't know who I am.

 Taken in out of pity by a girl. A nobody. A nothing. I was lost. I was drowning. Is it any wonder that I seized the first chance I could to regain my identity? Is it any wonder that I reached out for the Rose Bride and the familiar pattern of the duels? The duels that only echo another, older battle that has been going on for ten years.  


***

 It is all but complete. In the palm of my hand a rose blooms, half-open. Petals scallop delicately away from the furled centre of the blossom. I run my fingers carefully over the curves, finding the rough spots my eyes miss in the moonlight. A slow sweep of the knife pares down the imperfections. Inconsequential as it may be, I am still skilled with a blade.

***

 It is always a struggle, always a fight between the two of us. And the outcome is always the same. I will fall to him. He will take me.

 Our bokken lay abandoned, scattered where they had been dropped, or in my case, forced from my hand. It had become a different kind of battle, but a familiar one none-the-less. Our bodies were the weapons, and the battlefield. He held me pinioned, his deft fingers capturing my wrists. I was lost. I always lose. His hands, his mouth, his bare skin against mine.

 "Tell me," he said, low and seductive. I could feel his chest sweat-slick against my back. His breath came quickly, rapidly, as did mine. But despite that, his voice was level. He was playing games. He always plays games and I never know the rules.

 "I... I need it." My voice was not level. It caught roughly in my throat.

 "Say please." His lips lingered at the nape of my neck.

 "Please!" I gasped. And for this, I could hate him. Not for the lust, my body's obvious betrayal, not because I need it. But because he makes me want it. Because he makes me beg, and I _still_ want it, want him, even then.

 I do not think I will duel again for the Rose Bride. We all set our faith in the letters from Ends of the World. Their commands came impartial and inexplicable. We all trusted and hoped, hoped for honour, for power. For change. Why else would we fight for revolution? But now I know this is the same old story, the same old game. I have had enough of being a blind puppet. I have had enough of tangled lies that snare me. I have had _enough_ of betrayal. I will not duel. This time, I will be strong and steadfast.

***

 The eastern horizon is still dark. I should see the faint flush of dawn. It must not be far off. I hold the delicate rose between thumb and forefinger and scrutinize it critically. There. There, where I cut against the grain. Carefully, oh so carefully, I smooth out the last of the small nicks and scars.

 "What do you have there?" says a satin-smooth voice in my ear. To my credit, I do not jump. But the knife skids across the petals and nicks my hand. A drop of blood, inky black in the moonlight, wells up and slides down to soak into the raw gouge in the wood. Touga leans over my shoulder, perilously close. He looks amused, to have caught me intent on such a trivial task. His hair falls loose in a silken curtain, swinging forward to slither across my collarbone. I have not seen him in the weeks since my expulsion. He has not returned to the Student Council meetings since his defeat at Utena's hands. But we speak of none of this, nor of what he is doing in my room in the middle of the night. None of that is important right now.

 "It doesn't matter. It's ruined now," I say peevishly, fingering the deep score where the knife had slipped. I scowl at him, sucking my wounded finger.

 "I like it better that way," he says huskily. Long fingers tangle with my own as he oh-so-gently brushes the marred rose. His thumb caresses my palm, a moth's-wing touch. I can feel the heat of his skin more than the weight of his hand. I shiver. He takes the flower from my senseless fingers. Eyes intent upon me, he lifts my other hand to his mouth, lips and tongue lingering over the shallow cut. Once again, I close my eyes in silent submission.


End file.
